Darker Side of Blue
by TB's LMC
Summary: We've all seen the lighthearted portrayal of the Tracys on the series. But what about the darker side of our boys in blue? Has been archived at the Tracy Island Chronicles. Darker themes on this one, folks.


_Summary: We've all seen the lighthearted portrayal of the Tracys on the series. But what about the darker side of our boys in blue?_

_Author's Note: The lyrics for the song Darker Side of Blue are copyright Tal Bachman. No infringement intended._

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><p><strong>DARKER SIDE OF BLUE<strong>

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><p><strong>On a television screen like a technicolor dream<br>I watch the crowd surround you**

The rescue had only been half-successful. While the lower half of the small village in Singapore had been completely buried and then washed away by the mudslide, the upper half had been what buried the lower. Those from higher on the hillside had been saved. Eighteen men, women and children in all. Twenty-one had died. Digging bodies out from amongst remnants of huts, mud caked in every crevasse of their bodies, their uniforms black and brown and clinging to their sweat-soaked skin. Hair at first plastered with mud, now drying into clumps of dirt to be scratched and brushed away.

Feet the only things dry inside high boots. Feet that stunk with thirteen hours of dried sweat. Of death. Of rotting flesh. Weary not only from physical exertion but also from exposure to devastation, to the negative side of being human upon the planet Earth, five men staggered back toward their respective aircraft. The one with copper hair stumbled. A slightly taller one with soft blonde hair and baby-chub cheeks held out a hand to steady him.

**And you act so nonchalant as you pass the debutantes  
>Who know you as they found you<strong>

A tall, Nordic blond lithe man carried a few items – a couple shovels, a larger mud scoop and a gear box. Laden with these tools of their trade, tools that could not be matched by technology in the world of the slide, he trudged into the large, green cavernous pod. Moments later the tools clattered to the floor. The first two followed the third inside. Eyes met eyes between the giant green plane and the rocket-shaped silver one as the final two tried to draw strength from wells that had been tapped. Humankindness and philanthropy be damned, it was scenes such as these that were poison to the soul, no matter how pure and true it may be.

**So what is it like on the inside?  
>You live the high life<strong>

"See you back at Base." Riveting dark blue eyes bored into topaz ones. No recharging to be had.

"Yeah," the topaz one answered. Hidden beneath the hours of dirt and grime, sans the uniform hat, terra cotta hair could not be recognized, though known so well to the one with darker features.

A nod. A second nod. The two parted company, the idea being that words weren't really needed. Both felt the same. Indeed, all _five_ felt the same. Nobody had to say it. Especially not now when it was so fresh, the wounds so raw. The door to the giant pod lifted closed and the behemoth above it settled down as a nesting bird to egg. Nearby the rocket plane gleamed blindingly in the heat of a Singaporean afternoon. Sun that warmed tourists at beaches not ten miles away, but here meant only the stench of death would rise to the heavens.

Dirty. Alone. He thumped back into the red pilot's seat, absentmindedly brushing the hardened dirt from his hands. Buckled one belt around his legs, one around his waist. Hands met levers and the flick of a thumb opened a line of communication. Flat. Cold. Mind reeling in repulsion of the images that came to mind unbidden.

"Thunderbird One to Thunderbird Two. Lifting off. See you back at Base."

"Thunderbird Two," the disembodied voice responded. "F.A.B."

A shift forward, then back. A click and the single VTOL blasted to life. A moment of weightlessness as she rose into the air. His heart pounded. Now, even tired and spent, this was his time. Here at the controls, ready to cut the sky to pieces with the wake from his engines. A way to get back at the universe for putting those village families through such a horrific experience. Slice through the clouds, shake your fist at the sky, curse the sun and thank the heavens for the fact that at least your four brothers were alive and unharmed.

First order of business was to keep the rescuers safe. But they all took risks. Otherwise they wouldn't be doing what no one else could. They wouldn't be putting it on the line whenever the call came, whenever strangers cried out in the dark for help, if they weren't willing to give their lives for others. A noble pursuit on paper, but far less noble reasons sometimes behind continuing on.

**You walk in the room with your attitude**  
><strong>You've got an awful lot to prove<strong>

At first it had seemed so glamorous. Always a realist, he knew what had lain in store for them all. Yet deep within the eldest a fire burned. Never content to rest on laurels, never content to just do one thing, never leaving anything alone but always pushing. Push the jet faster, make it go higher. Pushing, pushing, always pushing. Teetering on the edge of danger, one step ahead of disaster, one step behind understanding the need to feel it. Live off the adrenaline, but it's not enough. It's never enough.

**At the end of the day when you walk away  
>Are you on the darker side of blue?<strong>

Hidden deep within a well of blackness, murky rivers rising to just beneath the surface. Always there, yet always unseen. It took nothing for moods to change, for the heady desire for more and more and more to consume him. Once it had been about doing right. Now it was about being right doing. Justify getting just a little too close to those flames. Justify getting a little too far into the unlit hall. Justify getting too deep into the pit. Justify jeopardizing everything by calling it protection of the rest of the team.

Whatever worked.

**You used to be someone just like me  
>Do you wonder what you're missing?<strong>

He leaned back in his seat as he increased speed. Monitors and instruments telling him how One was doing, where he was, what was ahead and behind and all around him. More often than not, he wasn't alone in the sky. But most of the time he was going so fast he barely registered on anyone's radar, and all they'd see with the naked eye was something streaking by their windows.

"Thunderbird Two lifting off."

Automaton response. "F.A.B. Thunderbird One to Base. Thunderbirds One and Two now airborne and returning. Acknowledge."

"Acknowledged, Thunderbird One. Good work out there."

Good work. Close the channel. No need to acknowledge _that_ one. Good work out there. Good work saving only half the people. Good work pulling dead bodies out of the mud. Pulling and pulling until their torsos and legs emerged from their squishy graves with a pop. Pull them to the side while relatives and friends wept and wailed for those lost to the elements. Good work. Thanks, Dad. Good work to you, too.

Pushing, pushing. Always pushing.

The only drawback to the insane pleasure he derived from flying the most incredible aircraft in the world was _why_ he was flying it. He didn't feel guilty for enjoying it. But he did feel bad about why he was _able_ to. The only reason he could do this, could go faster than anyone else, was because people were getting hurt.

_Are you kidding? If you didn't already have this job, you'd kill for it._

**And when the paparazzi stare at your face and clothes and hair  
>Do you wonder what they're whispering?<strong>

He'd kill for people getting killed so he could race through the skies. Deeper. Darker. Him.

And on he raced. No radio check for another 20 minutes. This was his time. His time alone with all that metal, all that circuitry, the amazing technology that got him where he was needed. Now it was just his time to feel her move, listen to her engines…enjoy what he did for a living.

Enjoy watching people die.

So many had been saved in the five years they'd been doing this. People were alive today because of them. But for all their speed and machinery, they still died. Fly this 'bird because people are dying. Let adrenaline course through veins in order to be the first to see the spirits leaving them. To be the first to see broken bones, people in peril. The first to decide who would live and who would die. Among the victims. Among his brothers.

Masochistic at the very least. Send your brother into the depths of the earth. Earth which could collapse and take him at any moment. Send your brother into the center of an inferno that melted steel. An inferno that could bake him in his boots. Send your brother down a shaft to save a fallen man. A shaft that could become his tomb. Send your brother into a scene where the locals would rather shoot you than laud you. Gratitude sometimes, other times not.

We do it because we can. Because we don't know what else to do. The lives once so full of personal achievements gone. Now alone, unknown, reclusive. Billionaire saviors of the world. Five men with pasts, loves lost, heartache, torment. They had to do it because no one else would. _He_ had to do it because the need was there. Face the unknown. Make all the decisions. Play God. _You two will live. You three will die. And I will send my brothers into the lion's den._

He tried to make it be about what it used to be about. He tried making every second count, making all the right moves. He was good at it. The best. But being the best can come at a terrible price. In his case, the price was his soul.

It grew darker and darker with each moment on call, each command, each scene that came like tap water from a broken faucet. Couldn't turn it off. Even when it dripped it dripped fast, filling his head slowly with what he had seen, what he had done. Saving lives. At the cost of his.

Roll the 'bird, shake some of the tension. It was always like this on the way home. He melded with the mounted chair, became one with the metal and lights and monitors. Felt her around him. Her sounds soothed him, lulled him into a sort of twilight moment where his senses were still on alert but his thoughts and emotions had time to sort themselves out.

There was always the blackest moments as soon as they left a scene like this. Thoughts of self-destruction consumed him, taking him down into the depths of the man that existed only within his skin. The man no one else knew. But as thousands of miles passed at speeds faster than any others could go, slowly the darkness would begin to melt. Black would lighten to gray. And though the man he truly was never disappeared, his Thunderbird allowed him to tuck it back into the recesses of his psyche. Tuck it away until the next time a call came in. The next time some lived and some died. The next time he played God.

They were heroes. They were men. They were those who brought hope and light to situations of hopelessness and darkness. They wore the blue and they came. But nobody would ever know what hid beneath the uniform. Beneath the eyes. Underneath what others only saw as perfection.

**So what will you say when you've had your day  
>And it all fades away?<strong>

The smell of freshly-mown grass. Watching his father out on the riding lawn mower, back and forth across the grand expanse of their land. The smell of freshly shorn hay, let it lie there green and nearly alive, let it die slowly until it turned yellow. The massive wagons pulled by equally massive John Deere tractors, green and yellow, farmers with their baseball caps, their flannel, their overalls, their jeans, their cowboy boots, their chewing tobacco. Drop the hay in the wagons, haul it to be sheathed together and sold.

The smell of dirt. Fresh, clean, earthy tones wafting past as the ground was tilled in spring, ready for the seed that would bring this year's crops. Dirt as black as coal, rich topsoil full of nutrients. The smell of rain in the air, that warm, sweet smell and you know it's coming. A storm, thunder and lightning, watching the world around you darken and then come alive as streaks of light zag from the ground to the sky. Big raindrops, bigger than a dime, splattering everything. Oops, left Gordon's tricycle outside, it'll rust for sure now, Grandma will have me for that one.

Damn, did Dad put the riding mower away? Have to check the barn. Run outside, pull your shirt over your head but it doesn't help, you get soaked anyway, shivering by the time you reach the barn. Only a single animal, an old cow, couldn't bear to send her to slaughter, her milk had dried up, but she was Grandma's and Grandpa's old cow and Grandma loved her. Lived for more years than a cow should, was always sweet and mooed happily when he got there. He patted her, talking softly to her. Yep, tractor's in the stall, nice and dry. Might as well pull the trike in, too, use a rag to dry it off, otherwise Gordon will cry when it rusts. Avoid the lecture from Grandma.

He longed for those days on the farm. Sure, it was tough raising four brothers, but he hadn't done it completely alone. Grandma had become the mom, Jeff had…his brow furrowed. Don't think about that. Think about calming and soothing away nightmares and scraped knees. Think about holding hands while casts were put on broken bones, holding young boys who needed a father but didn't have one that could give anything to them. And so they turned to him, to their eldest brother. To the man who could always make everything better, make it all go away, make a happy smile break out on a sad face. A man who was nothing more than a boy.

Yet no, it hadn't been that bad. Simpler days than now. Simpler things to keep them safe from. Falling out of trees, falling down the old well hole. Falling off the tire swing, falling out of the hammock. Climbing up the trellis on the side of the house, climbing on the roof. Everything little boys could do they did, and sometimes he did it with them. They had idolized him. He had idolized his father. Idols upon idols, statues so fragile they would break from the touch of a feather, and break they did. The great astronaut was useless, the prized eldest son saw everything that happened, saw his mother dead, saw his father, the great sculpture of a god, fall to pieces, cracking inch by inch until nothing but shards on the floor.

**If you read the signs maybe you'll find  
>You will accept my point of view<strong>

There they all were, looking to him. Where's Mom? What happened to Mommy? I want Mommy! I want Daddy! All you have is me, boys. All you have is Scotty, sorry. It's not enough, but it has to be. I'm not your father, but I'm all the father you have. Dad loves you, yes, of course he loves you, but he's very busy, he has to take care of us all, you know. Take care of us financially, but I take care of your hearts, souls and minds. Grandma would cuddle and kiss, but if he was there, they'd run to him first before any other. He'd taken care of them, so easily, so hard. Not harder than this. Never harder than this.

Now it wasn't falling from trees, it was falling from cliffs. Now it wasn't rolling out of hammocks, it was rolling a machine flying five or ten thousand miles per hour. Now it wasn't ascending a trellis, it was ascending the heavens, beyond Earth's atmosphere and into the cold deadness of space. Each and every time they went, there was danger. More danger than they'd ever been in as children. More danger than Scott could handle. Worried. Father always worried, Grandma worried. _He_ worried. But he commanded. It was his job to keep them safe. The natural instinct that had taken over when he was 9 years old made him the best one for this job of field commander, of protector, of decision-maker.

But he longed for the easier decisions of long ago. Oh, all right, Gordon, you can have some ice cream before dinner, but don't let Grandma catch you! Yes, Ally-baby, you can play with Gordon's big boat, but don't break it or he'll be really mad at you. Yes, Virg, you can crawl into bed with me tonight. Yes, Johnny, you can head on over to the library, I'll drive you. No, I can't go out tonight, my brothers are all home. Have to take care of them. Can't go out. Can't hang with the guys. They need me. Sure, Grandma's there, but they need _me_. Can't leave her all alone with them, they're a handful. My sons, my brothers. Both, and the love so deep, so pure, the love so pressing and urgent that he felt it in his marrow. They were everything to him. He was proud. As though he were the father. As though he had raised them. He _had_. They were _his_ prodigies, _his _young men. They followed _him_.

And now they followed their father. Their father who was now away more than he was home. Always with Jenny, always traveling or just spending time with her. Wonderful for him he's got someone now, and Johnny and Gordo, too, they've all got someone, they're all moving on to things, all growing up in a sense even though they'd grown up years ago. He was glad, glad for their happiness, for what they were feeling. Glad that they _could_ feel it because he knew he couldn't. No time for things like that when you have a rescue organization to keep track of, when you have no choice but to dabble in business affairs. No, sorry, no time for a social life, can't go to the mainland with you, can't go trawling for girls on the strip. No social life because my brothers are here and I have to take care of them. Adulthood mirroring childhood mirroring adulthood.

They hadn't understood, really. None except maybe Virgil, but he wouldn't talk about it. No one did. Standing there all in a row from tallest to smallest, six Tracy men who'd lost their wife, their mother, their caregiver, their best friend, all in one day. Baby Alan, so small, born to a dead mother. Gordon, he didn't know why they were there, why he had to wear the itchy suit. Wanted to crawl away, wanted to totter unsteadily at gravestones, thinking they were great playthings for him. John, blue eyes wide, looking at all the people there, clinging to Scott's pant leg, unwilling to let go. Virgil to Scott's left standing stoic and brave, ignoring the words, ignoring the tears, ignoring the coffin splayed with every color of rose imaginable.

Scott. Jeff. Solid. Strong. Alone. Standing straight, he mirrored his father's posture, stance, hands behind his back, clasped so tightly the knuckles were white and the hands sore for days afterward. Stare straight ahead through sunglasses, don't let anyone see your eyes, never let them see your eyes. Eyes told the truth. Eyes were dangerous windows that must be kept covered. Stare ahead not seeing, not willing to see. They weren't really there. They weren't really at her funeral. No, she'd be back soon, off to see her brother or on a trip to buy things for them all. Perhaps just practicing for the next opera, that voice, the singing, it trailed in their memories as if blown on the wind. They heard her so clearly. One thought, one song, one voice running through two minds. But don't show anyone. Don't show and don't tell.

**Now how do you feel now that you've seen it?**

Words of comfort, of compassion. Days passing in a blur, not understanding at so tender an age that boyhood was over once and for all. Dad disappeared, holed himself up in the study or the bedroom. Slept at night with pillows in his arms, pillows smelling of her. Never washed them for ages, not until he left for Florida. Finally Grandma and Scott went in and stripped the bed, Grandma snuffling back tears as Scott picked up the pillow and held it to his face. The last scent of Mom. The closet still full of her clothes. He remembered her wearing that dress, those slacks, that blouse. Remembered the old work jeans and tee shirt she used for out on the farm. Remembered the gown from an operatic performance in _Turandot_.

Never more beautiful than on stage, deep, rich tones enveloping him in their velvet softness. Tones that had soothed him to sleep, taught him lessons, told him she loved him over and over. Our special boy, our Scotty. Our first baby. For three years he had been hers and she, his. When Virgil had come it had seemed to be perfection, and then another they named John and the family had grown and grown, but Lucy always had more than enough love for each. All felt loved completely and wholly, never that they had to vie for attention, vie for affection, vie for Mom. Somehow she did it all, spreading herself to them and, he now added, to their father as well.

There were nights he would lay awake and think of her, think of the past. Most nights not, but sometimes it came rolling back and the memories were sweet, painted in shades of rose and pink, clouded by minutes, hours and days between then and now. Remember only the good, only the happy times. Never the bad. Even after she was gone, the memories were good as he worked on the farm, worked to take his place as head of the family while Father built their legacy.

Sigh, leaning back into pillows, stretch out on the bed. There was work to be done, always work to be done, but right now he had to think, had to understand this thing within him that scratched and clawed to be born. To evolve from being the beast within to being the beast without. One day he would explode or implode, he knew that, and no one could stop the inevitable. It was only a matter of how long he would last, how long it would take, how many more buttons could be pushed, how many more people he could watch die, how many more times his heart had to freeze in fear of the injury or death of one of his beloved sons-slash-brothers.

Sons indeed, the best father anyone could have. Loved children with a passion, loved their fingers and toes, their little hands and eyes, small little people with everything ahead of them and no sorrows yet in their short, beautiful lives. And yet sometimes the best fathers are never meant to have children and so add another black drop to the pool of sludge hiding deep beneath the surface. He wanted them, he knew he could do it, he wanted one of his own. The four had not been his own, he had been surrogate, but he had raised them well, just look at them. He had done well and inside he felt the chance to mold another young life might make up for what he hid from view.

Goodness to erase darkness. A child to live through, see the world through their eyes, know _you_ are their world. They depend on you, love you, hug you and kiss you. Taking away the pain of yesteryear and giving new hope. New hope comes with new life. Knowing that you are responsible for the air they breathe, the food they eat, the water they drink. For ensuring all is safe and sound, keeping them wrapped in your arms until at last you have to let them go, let them fly. It's hard watching them go. Hard understanding they're no longer the babes you changed diapers on, wiped tears from, spoon-fed in a high chair.

Even now he longed for those days of caring for and nurturing and now they no longer needed it, now they were grown men and his only caring-for came in the field where he tried to do his best. Where he played God, all the while fighting the devil underneath. Kansas was home. It was family. It was laughter and life. It was Mom and Dad happy, loving, laughing, joking, singing, dancing. Rose and pink, rose and pink, colored like one of Virgil's palettes, but comforting in its perfection, though it may not be all truth.

Here, this peaceful tropical island, warm breezes and sunshine, sand and azure waves. Perfect in its own way, an exile in some ways, he would have it no _other _way. Yet what to do with what tried to get out of him? Explore it? Let it take him? Let it have him body, mind and soul? Could it be expunged? Could it be taken? If he let the monster out, would it split from him and leave? Would Evil leave Good to exist in peace? What if he let it out and it hurt someone or everyone around him? What if he let it out and regretted it but couldn't put it back? What if it _stayed_ out and he lost the façade he worked so hard to construct and keep in place, patching it like an expert carpenter each time a crack appeared?

It would have to come out. Sooner or later he would no longer have a choice. He hoped it would happen while he was alone. Away from the others, he could let it have its way and there would be no harm to them. He longed to meet it, to understand it, to face it. But of all the things that frightened him, this frightened him the most.

The darker side of a Tracy. The darker side of International Rescue. The darker side of blue.

**Are you on the darker side, the darker side of blue?**

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><p><strong><strong>Watch for the sequel to this story, "Sitting Duck."


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